Story:Nobody's Safety Guaranteed/Intermission 3
The first thing You notice are Mum and Dad. At their presence, your heart leaps; You thought You would never see them again, despite what Deng had told You. It must be a dream – but how can the joy in your heart be a dream? A special dream, like Deng told You. How special You are, to have Deng and Mum and Dad. Mum and Dad are in a room that You have never seen before. Where your bedroom is nothing but pure whiteness and slick, sterile shelves, this room is a wooden maze exploding with trinkets. There are old books overflowing the bookcases and photographs forming a jigsaw puzzle on the wall and, inexplicably, a tree in the corner. Every available surface has been decorated with tiny objects that You do not understand, most of them in the shape of fish or birds. Sparkly ornaments and strings hang from the walls and ceiling. The light in the room is somehow dim and warm and orange all at once. It makes no sense to You, and it feels like home. You take a step forward, and the ground beneath your feet is soft. Fuzzy, like some of Deng’s clothes. Warm. It scares You, but Mum and Dad are sitting nonchalantly on it, fiddling with boxes and sheets of paper, so it must be okay. Will they be happy to see You? Tentatively, You wave at your parents. They do not react, but then again, they seem extremely busy with whatever it is they are doing with the brightly coloured paper. Deng does not like it when You interrupt them. But they look so happy doing it, compared to Deng who is always frowning at her work, grumbling about funding and results and stupid other scientists. After eight increasingly frantic waves, You find yourself growing impatient. Mum and Dad have looked up sometimes, talked to each other, laughed – but still they don’t notice You! It makes You so mad that you work up the courage to shout, “Hello!” It comes out more like a squeak. “Hello?” Mum and Dad take no notice. It as if You do not exist at all. Now You are filled with fear. It is like being alone, but worse. It is like those days when Deng has to leave for conferences, and You sit there, watching the clock until You know she will be back. They are right there, but they do not pay attention to You. You try to step forward again, but immediately run into a wall. Desperately, You feel your way around it, but the invisible wall stretches across the entire room. There is no texture to it, no edges, nothing but the feeling of resistance. Mum and Dad are behind a pane of glass, laughing, unaware, as You beat against the wall with no sound. Suddenly, Mum and Dad stop and look up straight at You. You pause, hands still pressed against the glass above your head. They look so happy, and your heart lifts; yes, your parents are here, and You will be saved. The next moment, a child comes barrelling across the room, passing so close to You that You should have felt their passage. The child runs, laughing, straight into the arms of Dad, who swoops him up into his arms. Just the way he did to You. “What did Santa get for me?” the boy pipes. “Santa doesn’t come until Christmas, dear,” Mum says fondly. He wriggles until Dad lets him down. “Then what’s this?” he demands, pointing at her half-wrapped box. “That’s a present for Aunty India.” “Which one’s mine?” Mum points to a large box wrapped in bright blue. The boy’s eyes grow wide and greedy. “Can I open it?” “Not yet. But you can watch the wrapping.” For a few minutes, the child watches Mum and Dad attentively as they wrap the presents. He keeps sneaking glances at the present meant for him. Gradually, he edges his way closer and closer. You want to shout, to tell them how wrong it is; look at how that devious child is going to steal the present – but your words mean nothing, and Mum and Dad are too intent on their task. The sound of ripping is like a crack of thunder. The boy freezes in the act of tearing open the wrapping paper. “Rascal!” Mum exclaims, as Dad tears him away from the present. “Nooooo,” the boy wails, and your heart lifts at them finally seeing through the deception. They will realise. They will realise this child is not You. Imagine your disbelief when both parents begin laughing. The boy continues to squirm, obviously outraged despite his tears. Mum wraps a long strip of paper around him like a rope, keeping his arms pinned. “No more mischief,” she teases. And You can only watch, helpless and silent, as the child is embraced by both parents, stealing the joy that is meant for You. There is a presence beside You. This fact manages to filter its way through your despair. With a gasp, You jump away; there is a boy – no, a man, standing beside You, staring at the same scene. His eyes are filled with a longing You cannot help but recognise. He seems to realise your presence at the same time You realise his. His face twists into rage. “The hell are you doing in my dream?” he asks belligerently. He takes a step forward, raising his fist. You have seen people do this in old films that Deng has shown You. It means he is ready to fight. Somehow, this makes You angry, too. “Your dream?” You demand, channelling the way Deng talks on the phone sometimes. “This is my dream! My special dream. Why are you in it?” “The fuck are you talking about?” The boy gestures violently at her. Immediately, his expression changes to confusion. He thrusts his hand forward again, palm towards You, as if expecting the air to do something. When nothing happens, fear crosses his face. Fear? You wonder. He is much larger than You, even if he is skinny. You have to revise your estimate of his age. Not a man, but not a boy. Now You don’t feel afraid, even as he balls up his fists and raises them again. There is too much fear in his green eyes. “Stay back!” he shouts, as You take a step forward. Something about his green eyes fascinates You. They are oddly familiar. Actually, all of him fascinates You, now that You see he is not a threat. You’ve never talked to someone young before. Someone who might be like You. In the background, the child laughs. Both of you turn towards that incongruous sound. A moment later, You cannot help but gasp. The adult is gangly and pointy where the boy is rounded and chubby, yes, but they have the same sea-green eyes, the same sandy-coloured hair and pale skin. “You’re the other you!” You exclaim. “The other you that-” You ignore whatever it is that the other you says next. There is another you. The other you that you were. A you that is not You but is You and now you are together with a third you that is also not You or you which means that ''You are-'' I am. Understanding blossoms over me. The other you stares at me, obviously fearful, and I give him a beatific smile. It makes so much sense, and I have to explain it to him. I have to give him this wonderful sense of peace. Then he will not be afraid, even if his parents aren’t here or don’t love him anymore. “Hello,” I say. “I am You.” I take a step towards him, then another, and another, until I am standing so close that we can nearly touch each other. He does not move, but stands, transfixed. There is still fear in his eyes and all I want to do is wipe it away. “I love you.” And I enfold him in me, as warm as a parent’s embrace. |}